Time Marches On
by NobdyPtclr
Summary: What if Dean's visit to the faith healer had consequences that the brothers weren't aware of right away? Set after Faith and Route 666.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Time Marches On**

**Author: NobdyPtclr**

**Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies. Kevin Parks is mine, but I'm not that possessive, really.**

**Author's Note: This story is set after the events of "Faith" and "Route 666". Portsmouth, New Hampshire is real, Strawberry Banke is real, Penhallow House is real. If you are familiar with any of the above, please forgive any artistic license.**

**Chapter One: Something Not Quite Right?**

Sam's Journal

_Looking back I'm not surprised it took us a while to notice that something was different. The visit to the faith healer – hell, even the circumstance that brought us there - had thrown us both off balance. Even with the insulation of years passed I can still feel the fear and loss that the anticipation of Dean's death caused, even though it's a feeling I haven't experienced since then. Memories of the relief I felt when he was healed still have the power to overwhelm, although they are now tempered with sadness. It took more years than I like to count to admit to myself that what seemed to be our salvation for so long was really a terrible mistake._

_Of course, there was an initial cost for both of us when Dean's heart was repaired. We both had to live with the knowledge that the price for Dean's life was an innocent man's death. While Dean struggled with the question of why he was chosen – out of all those people – to be saved, I held onto my own guilt; secretly knowing that if I had it to do over again I'd do exactly the same thing – innocent lives be damned. Neither of us knew at that point that there was still a price to be paid._

Present Day

Sam had heard that New England was beautiful in the fall, but this was his first opportunity to see it in person. A call from one of their father's old friends had brought them to the seacoast town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on a trip that didn't promise much time for sightseeing. He had watched the trees fly by and caught a couple glimpses of the ocean, but he didn't hold much hope for more than that. Dean was in one of his moods, completely focused on the job ahead and, as he drove, frowning at the road in front of them, Sam knew better than to talk about foliage or cruising the coastline. Instead he stared out the window and idly wondered why they didn't travel into the northeast very often. The train of thought didn't take him far, and he finally gave up with a sigh, turning to look at his brother.

"So, do you know this guy we're going to see?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded with a quick glance at him. "Old Army buddy of Dad's. He's an archaeologist or something. We helped him out a couple years back at a dig in New Mexico."

Sam waited for more, but apparently Dean felt he'd provided enough information. It wasn't that he begrudged Sam the answers – he answered any questions asked – but he had been practicing this strange economy of words for a couple of weeks. Sam wasn't sure if it had started as a result of the faith healer or of leaving Cassie behind. Hell, it could have been something else entirely. He didn't know what the issue was, and he hadn't figured out how to talk to his brother about it. Leaving it alone, for now, he stuck with the current topic.

"What was in New Mexico?"

"Hodag," Dean answered succinctly.

"And what's this guy's name, again?"

"Kevin Parks."

Sam was ready to scream in frustration by the time they hit the New Hampshire toll. Instead he handed his brother a crumpled dollar bill and directed him to their exit at the Portsmouth Traffic Circle, where Dad's friend had booked a room for them at the local Holiday Inn. Sam eyed the liquor store across the circle, thinking cynically that their father would have been right at home.

Dean followed his gaze for a minute before cuffing the back of his head and striding into the building. Sam turned his back on the rapidly gathering dusk and followed his brother inside.

The Holiday Inn wasn't really fancy, but it was certainly upscale compared to the roadside motels they were used to. Sam unpacked their things while Dean secured and protected the room. Watching his brother finish up and cross to stand at the third floor window, Sam recognized his concern. They were accustomed to first floor rooms with doors that opened to the parking lot.

"Listen," Sam crossed to his brother's side, "the room's protected, it's the cleanest we've had in a long time, and we're not paying. It'll be fine."

Dean turned to him with a frown on his face. "What about the car?"

Sam laughed out loud, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "You have separation anxiety from your car?"

"Dude, don't mock. That car's never let me down. What if someone messes with it?"

Trying not to flinch at Dean's implication that the car was the only thing that had not disappointed him, Sam glanced out the window then shot his brother a tight grin. "Look, we'll pull the car around and park it in this side of the lot, right under the light. We can keep an eye on it from here."

Sam saw the poorly veiled gratitude in his brother's eyes and realized that Dean hadn't been taking a shot at him. For his brother it was simply a statement of fact – when everyone had disappeared from around him, the car had still been there. The fact that he felt guilty was his problem, not Dean's.

As Dean went to move the Impala, Sam grabbed his coat and headed for the lobby. Dad's friend would be meeting them shortly to explain his problem over dinner.

Kevin Parks was a trim, muscular man in his late forties. Thin wire-framed glasses, perched on his nose, gave a scholarly appearance but, beneath that, Sam got the sense that the man was ready for anything. Both brothers were impressed by his matter-of-fact acceptance of what they did.

Taking them across the river to a seafood restaurant in Maine where he was greeted by name, Kevin requested – and was granted – an out of the way booth where they could talk freely.

Explaining that he was currently freelancing as a consulting anthropologist for the Strawberry Banke Museum in Portsmouth, Kevin described their project to restore one of the old houses that was part of the museum. The work on the interior of the Penhallow House had been plagued by mysterious accidents, injuries, and even a small fire in the basement.

The brothers exchanged a glance. "Poltergeist?" Sam suggested.

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Could be. What's the history?" he asked, looking at Kevin.

I've got the basics for you. There's a library on site if you need to look deeper," Kevin responded, producing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

Sam collected the papers and skimmed through the information as they waited for the check. Kevin reached into his briefcase once more and produced two ID badges.

"These will give you access to the site as my graduate assistants. The museum is open 10 to 5 until the end of the month, but the badges will get you in early or let you stay late. My crew is usually in around 8am."

Kevin picked up the tab for dinner, thanking them effusively for responding to his call. He spoke highly of their father as he drove back to their hotel, sharing old Army stories until he dropped them off. Dean seemed to genuinely enjoy the tales, but Sam found himself trying to reconcile the fun-loving Army prankster from the stories with the angry, withdrawn man who had raised him.

It had looked like Dean was shaking free of his moodiness over the course of the evening, so Sam was disappointed when – upon arriving at their room – his brother glanced out at the Impala then shut himself in the bathroom to get ready for bed. Emerging a few minutes later, Dean tucked himself into the bed closest to the door.

"'night," he muttered, turning his back to Sam.

"Good night," Sam responded. Sighing, he settled on his own bed with the laptop. He wasn't tired and he wasn't ready to confront Dean, still hoping he'd snap out of it on his own. Research was definitely the answer.

Sam woke up as the sun was rising. The laptop was gone, and the spread from Dean's bed had been tossed over him at some point in the night. He felt good thanks to an uninterrupted night's sleep. Glancing over as he stretched, he saw that Dean was still sleeping soundly and decided not to risk waking him by running the shower. Instead he checked on the car, standing by the window as he dressed quickly, and tiptoed out to track down some coffee.

Less than two hours later the brothers were on their way. Sam rolled his eyes as they walked into Strawberry Banke and Dean continued to mutter about leaving the Impala in a public parking lot. Their plan was to check out the restoration site, visit the museum's library, then return to the hotel to form their conclusions and make plans for the night.

The museum consisted of a cluster of period houses and out-buildings dating mainly from the 1700's. They had arrived prior to opening, and there were few people on the grounds. Consulting the map that Kevin had provided in the information packet the night before, Sam led Dean across the green to the far end of the property.

"It should be that house, straight ahead," he informed his brother.

None of the workers were visible outside the house, but someone had seen them coming and Kevin met them at the door. There was a small group of four or five workers on the first floor and Sam could feel curious eyes on them as Kevin led them through a quick tour, but no one commented on their unusual equipment. Sam carried the video camera, watching the display closely, while Dean turned on his modified walkman and monitored it as they walked from room to room. Kevin watched closely with obvious interest, but seemed reluctant to speak, as if he was afraid he might interrupt something.

"Nothing yet," Sam said as they finished with the first and second floors. The comment was mostly for Kevin's benefit, since the brothers knew that activity was unlikely during the day. "Does this place have a basement?"

Kevin nodded. "It's more like a root cellar. This house was moved here in the 1860's, probably placed over the existing cellar." He led them to a corner of the first floor, indicating a trap door.

The brothers exchanged a glance before Dean grabbed the inset metal ring and heaved the door open. A short, narrow, wooden staircase took them into a small room with stone walls and a dirt floor. There was no light in the space other than what little natural light filtered down from the room above. Dean fumbled through their ever-present bag and produced two flashlights. Handing one to Sam, he shined the other around the tight space.

"Whoa, what's that?" he asked suddenly, training the beam on a jagged opening in the wall behind the stairs.

Kevin shrugged before realizing they wouldn't see the gesture in the darkness. "I'm not sure. We found that shortly after the project started. It looks like a tunnel, but we haven't explored it. It's really narrow, and our job doesn't include the cellar at this point."

"Does anyone know how long it's been there?" Sam asked as Dean moved to shine his light into the opening.

"No one from the museum knew anything about it when we brought it to their attention," Kevin answered, "but the pieces from the wall were all over the floor when we started here, so it must have been made relatively recently."

Sam absorbed this for a minute. "And your guys haven't seen anything clearly." It was more statement of fact than question.

"No," Kevin responded. "Just smoky, murky shapes. It was tough getting them to admit to that much."

Sam grinned wryly in the dim light and opened his mouth to reply, only to close it as Dean interrupted.

"Sam, come check this out!"

It was only two steps to his brother's side and Sam found himself staring into the opening. The beam of Dean's flashlight only penetrated a few feet. He could see the rough, packed-dirt sides of the hole, then darkness.

"Yeah. It's a hole," he said, tone laced with sarcasm. In response, Dean held up the walkman in his other hand, and Sam could see the lights jumping.

"Dude, hold the light for a sec while I get the shotgun. I'm gonna take a closer look." Dean handed him the flashlight, adjusting his hand so he was pointing it at their bag. Sam was so startled by the idea, that it took his brain a minute to formulate a reply.

"No way! Dean, we have no clue what made that hole – we don't know how to kill it! You're not going in there alone, you idiot. We'll do some research, come back tonight and see if we can draw it out – face it together." Sam put his hand on Dean's arm, lowering his voice, "You don't have to do this alone."

Dean's eyes flickered, and for a moment Sam thought he'd won. Then Dean hoisted the shotgun in one hand. "I won't be alone," he said with a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, but the grin won him over; it was vintage Dean – from before the strained silences. "Hell, you probably won't fit," he laughed, flapping his arm for Dean to go ahead and try. "You're gonna regret all those cheeseburgers."

"Bite me," Dean responded, breaking open the shotgun.

"You don't know what it is," Sam pointed out again. "So how do you pick the ammo?"

Dean held up a cartridge. "Salt," he said, sliding it into one barrel. He held up a second, "Silver." He finished loading the weapon. "Covering as many bases as possible." Balancing the gun on the edge of the hole, he reclaimed his light from Sam.

"Shouldn't you take more ammo?" Kevin asked, inching up beside Sam.

"Got some in my pocket," Dean told him. "But it'll be useless unless it widens out in there. No room to reload." He laughed, turning back to the hole. "Good thing I don't miss."

Kevin looked to Sam for confirmation. He smiled wryly and nodded, pride in his eyes. Yes, Dean was cocky, but he was also that good.

Pushing the shotgun ahead, Dean wriggled – arms first – into the hole. After forcing his shoulders in, he paused when he reached his waist. "I think I can get in, but it's gonna be slow coming back out."

Sam cursed under his breath. It was already a bad situation. The thought of Dean trapped in the tunnel with God-knows-what was too much. Shining his light on his brother's waving legs, he was about to grab on and pull Dean out, regardless of the argument it would cause, when inspiration struck.

"Hang on a sec," he called, slapping his brother's leg for emphasis. Digging in the bag, he produced a length of rope. "Dean, I'm gonna slip-knot a rope around your legs. Yell or jerk on it if you need to get out in a hurry."

"Alright." Dean was muffled, but audible.

"You run out of rope and we're done," Sam told him as he finished with the knot.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean's voice drifted back as he inched his way down the tunnel.

Sam looked toward Kevin as he fed the rope into the opening. "You should get your guys out of the building, just in case."

Kevin hesitated for a moment, obviously interested in watching them work, but his responsibility to his staff won out, and he started up the stairs with a sigh.

"No one back in the house till we let you know it's clear," Sam called after him, leaning against the wall as he continued to feed the rope and wait for his brother.

In The Tunnel

It was a tight fit. The tunnel gave enough room for him to breathe and to inch himself along, but nothing else. Dean had to admit that Sam – with his scrawnier build – would have been a better fit, but there was no way he was letting Sam dive headfirst into this type of danger.

Using leverage created almost solely with his hands and feet, he continued, trying not to feel the dirt walls pressing against him from all sides or the occasional scrape of a jutting rock against his skin. He was pushing the shotgun ahead of him with one hand and the flashlight with the other. It wasn't much more than a minute before he saw a flat dirt wall ahead. Another couple feet and he found himself looking down into a dark crevice.

"I'm at the end, Sam!" he yelled back to his brother. "There's a drop-off." He shined his light over the edge.

There was movement below, and Dean's breath caught in his throat. He quickly set the light aside, leaving it on, and freed both hands for the shotgun. Staring through the dim light into the darkness below, Dean widened his eyes, watching for any hint of motion.

Enveloped in darkness, a creature opened its glowing red eyes and stared upward. It rose and stretched with sinuous grace, claws scraping against rock. It was not in any hurry, confident in its superiority as predator.

"Oh, crap," Dean muttered, aiming the shotgun at the glowing eyes. "Sammy!" he shouted. "Sammy, pull!" He heard the slithering of the rope behind him as Sam took up the slack, and quickly pulled the trigger, sending a spray of rock salt at the red eyes before he was jerked back from the edge. Dean thought he could hear the scrabbling of claws below, almost drowned out by his rapid breathing and his own passage through the dirt. His progress stopped abruptly as Sam battled with the rope, and suddenly the red eyes were in front of him again. They seemed to be just a few feet away, but he'd abandoned the flashlight and couldn't get a good look at the creature they belonged to.

"Sammy!" he shouted again, voice deep with warning, and then he was moving once more. Dirt and rocks dug into his skin. He fought to aim the shotgun, but without anything steady to balance it against, the motion kept jarring it off target. In desperation he jammed the gun against the top of his shoulder. A voice in the back of his mind pointed out that it was really going to hurt, but he brushed the thought away and pulled the trigger.

As the spray of silver lashed across its face, the creature started to glow, and Dean saw a confusing mass of claws and horns. He felt his feet pop out of the hole, and Sam's hands grabbed his ankles, but he couldn't take his attention off the being in front of him.

With an inhuman shriek it seemed to collapse in on itself then, just as quickly, it started to expand.

"Shit," Dean said aloud, mostly to himself. He let go of the shotgun to throw his arms in front of his face just as the creature exploded.

Sam heard the muffled 'shit' and yanked on his brother's legs. He felt the rumbling of the explosion and suddenly pieces of the wall were flying outward. He put all his strength behind one last tremendous yank, and Dean came flying out into his arms. Sam spun sideways under the weight and they both fell to the ground. His head hit the side of the stairs on the way down, and Sam joined his brother in unconsciousness.

**TBC (obviously)**


	2. A Revelation

Chapter Two: A Revelation

Sam came slowly back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw a beam of light. It took his confused mind a minute to realize that it was the flashlight shining – through the haze of settling dust – on a hand a few inches in front of his face. He blinked owlishly, mesmerized by the blood that was trickling down the fingers, dripping steadily into a small pool on the floor. He wasn't sure how long he stared before he flexed his fingers and discovered that it was not his hand.

"Shit, Dean!" The panicked realization cleared the cobwebs from his head, and he struggled to push himself up and crawl to his brother's side. Fighting the dizziness that most likely meant concussion, he reached out with a shaky hand to check for Dean's pulse. He had to bite back a sob of relief when his brother stirred under his touch.

"Sammy," Dean choked out, rolling onto his side. His voice was rough – with dust or emotion – and the simple act of turning over seemed to be almost too much. "You okay?" he asked.

"Better than you," Sam answered, propping his back against the stairs as he struggled to adjust to sitting up.

"Yeah. That plan kinda sucked, huh?"

Sam snorted. "That wasn't a plan. We were improvising."

"Probably shouldn't do that anymore," Dean pointed out, and his wry tone, coupled with the idea that his brother could ever _not_ improvise, had Sam laughing out loud.

His head felt a little clearer, and Sam reached for the flashlight, shining it on his brother's wounds. His scalp was bleeding in several places, but even in the limited light Sam could see that the cuts weren't deep. Moving the beam down, Sam sucked in a breath as he reached his brother's forearms, which were laced with deep cuts around shallower abrasions.

"Jesus, Dean, your arms! What happened in there?"

Dean sighed. "I'm not sure what it was, but it sure as hell didn't like silver. I got a little banged up on the way back out, then I shot it and it exploded." His sudden grin was surprising, but infectious, and Sam felt a familiar surge of love and exasperations. Dean continued, "It was a choice between my arms and my face. No contest."

Sam continued to smile as he shook his head. "You know you're crazy, right?"

Dean looked at him. "Runs in the family."

"Can you walk?" Sam asked. "We should get out of here and get you patched up."

Dean struggled shakily to his feet, leaning on the stairs. "I can walk, can you?" He extended a bloody hand and Sam, understanding his brother's need to take care of him, accepted the help, trying not to pull too hard as he climbed to his feet. He dragged their bag of weapons from the rubble and hoisted it gingerly onto his shoulder.

They supported each other up the stairs, and Sam laughed out loud at the situation. "God, we're a mess."

Dean looked at him as if he was crazy, and suddenly they were both laughing. Dean stopped as quickly as he'd started. "Shit. I left my jacket down there."

"It's probably buried anyway," Sam told him. For some reason this set them off again, and they were still laughing when Kevin met them at the front door.

Kevin Parks prided himself on being a calm and reasonable man, but he couldn't contain his shock when he saw the boys come through the door covered in dirt and blood and laughing like hyenas.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Sam sobered long enough to answer. "We took care of your problem, but the basement's going to need to be cleaned. We'll take that off the bill." He dissolved into laughter again, missed a step, and almost sent all three of them to the ground.

Kevin managed to steady them and reached for his cell phone. "Why don't you guys sit down and I'll call for help."

The brothers stopped laughing as if someone had thrown a switch, and Dean shook his head while Sam responded.

"No hospital. We're used to patching ourselves up," Sam explained. "It attracts less attention."

Kevin shook his head, "I don't think…"

"This is nothing," Dean said dismissively, standing up straight and taking his weight off his brother. Sam recognized the pain and effort involved, but Dean's mask was in place and Kevin was fooled completely.

"Let's go," Sam said, with a gentle tug on Dean's arm. He wanted to get moving before their strength gave out. "We'll give you a call tomorrow – see how things stand."

Kevin stepped aside, but watched their progress worriedly as they made their way toward the car. Shaking his head, he turned and walked into the house.

By the time they reached the Impala, Dean was sweating and Sam was staggering under his weight. He watched his older brother sink into the driver's seat and lay his head back, closing his eyes. His own vision had cleared, although his head was still pounding, and Sam nudged his brother's shoulder.

"Push over, I'll drive."

Dean grunted in agreement and eased himself out of the way. Sam eyed his brother's wounds, which had stopped bleeding freely, and decided to wait until they reached the hotel to patch them up.

It seemed like miles between the parking lot and their room, reminding Sam again of the perks associated with cheap, roadside motels. He was relieved that the desk clerk was busy and didn't notice their entrance. They made it up to the room without attracting attention, and Sam hung the Do-Not-Disturb sign before locking the door.

Dean managed to rouse himself and insisted on checking Sam's injuries first. Rolling his eyes, Sam submitted to the exam. He was scraped and bruised, but his only real injury was the tender lump forming on the back of his head. He hissed as Dean probed at it gently then pulled back to look in his eyes.

"Pupils are good," Dean murmured. "No nausea?" Sam shook his head, negative. "No concussion, then," Dean concluded. "I think you just got your bell rung."

Sam grinned at the expression and hoisted himself up from his seat on the edge of the bed. "Your turn. You want to shower first?"

Dean nodded. He handed his little brother two aspirin and a bottle of water before disappearing into the bathroom. Sam took the pills and lounged on the bed, letting the sound of the running water lull him into a state of relaxation. He was careful not to fall asleep, knowing that Dean would treat his own wounds if necessary rather than waking him up.

It was about twenty minutes before Dean emerged from the bathroom with a towel knotted around his waist. He was scowling as he pressed a washcloth to the side of his face.

"This better not leave a scar," he snarled, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

Sam forced his hand away and observed a three-inch cut down the side of his face near the hairline. He didn't think it was deep enough for stitched, and he moved Dean's hand back to cover it and stop the sluggish trickle of blood while he tended to the more serious wounds on his arms.

Both forearms bore a patchwork of cuts and scrapes, but Sam was pleased to see that they weren't as serious as he'd originally thought under the beam of the flashlight. Smearing antibiotic cream on them, he opted to wrap each arm in gauze rather than bandaging the cuts individually. He applied butterfly bandages to the gash on Dean's face, and stepped back to admire his work. Dean looked as bruised and battered as Sam felt, and his face was peppered with small cuts, but the major damage was taken care of. Knowing his brother would refuse a pain killer; Sam gave him aspirin instead and helped him get ready for bed.

"I'm going to grab a quick shower."

When Dean nodded, closing his eyes, Sam flicked the light off and closed the curtains before disappearing into the bathroom. His shower was quick – Dean had hogged the hot water as usual, and he could hear his bed calling to him. He smirked to himself. It was funny how a few hours of work could wipe them out as if they hadn't slept in days. After checking on his sleeping brother and glancing out at the Impala, Sam fell asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

He woke up hungry. The clock between the beds told him that it was well past dinner time – almost 9:30pm. They had been out for almost ten hours. He flipped on the light on the nightstand, groaning at the stiffness that had taken over his body and the dull ache in the back of his head.

Dean didn't stir, his face toward Sam as if he was watching over him, even in sleep. Glancing over, Sam frowned suddenly, leaning in for a closer look. The wounds that had crisscrossed his brother's face were gone.

Holding his breath, Sam moved to the side of the bed. The butterfly bandages were still there, but the edges of the wound that had been visible around the bandages had been replaced by smooth, unmarred skin. His legs gave out, and Sam fell back, sitting down hard on the floor beside his own bed. Hearing the noise, Dean shifted, opening his eyes slowly.

"Christo," Sam choked out.

Dean met his eyes and sat up slowly. There was no flinch, just a confused, worried look that was so patently Dean that Sam was finally able to suck air back into his lungs.

"Dude, what's wrong?" Dean leaned toward him, running on hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, and again he was so _Dean_ that Sam found his voice to answer.

"Your face," he began. He saw a flash of panic in his brother's eyes as Dean interrupted him, bringing his hands up to hover in front of his face, afraid to actually touch.

"What? Is it gross?"

There was an open desperation in his brother's voice that made Sam rush to answer. "No, it's healed."

Dean ran his hands hesitantly over his face, then jumped up and headed for the bathroom mirror. Sam followed and watched his brother pull off the butterfly bandages. The skin below was unmarked.

Looking at his brother in shock, Dean began unwrapping the gauze from one arm, willing his hand to be steady. As uninjured skin began to emerge, Sam forced himself forward and unwrapped the other arm, his own hands shaking.

"What happened to me?" Dean asked. His tone was curious but calm, but Sam could hear the underlying fear, could see it in the tense set of his brother's shoulders.

"We'll figure it out," he promised, trying to provide reassurance.

"Don't patronize me, Sammy," Dean warned. "How are you doing?"

Sam touched the back of his head gingerly. "No miracle cures for me," he joked. Hearing his own words, he froze.

"What?" Dean asked impatiently.

"Maybe that's what this is. Some kind of feedback effect from the faith healer, like extra power bouncing around inside you."

Dean frowned skeptically. "It was a reaper, Sam. Why would that leave any extra juice?"

Sam waved him off. "I don't know. Maybe he knew that we freed him, so he gave you something in return. Maybe it was accidental feedback when he dumped you for Sue Ann."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe I'm not me."

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him.

"We have no idea what that thing was this morning. Maybe it's possessing me and we just don't know it yet."

Sam shook his head. "No way. You're just as annoying as always." He felt a return of that initial pang of fear, but pushed it away. Somehow he could sense that Dean was still Dean, he just couldn't find the words to explain it to his brother.

"Sammy, I want you to test me. Everything – salt, silver, holy water, exorcism. If you find anything wrong, then I'll leave." Dean's voice cracked with emotion, and he waved Sam off when he tried to argue. "I'm not taking a chance that I could hurt you."

Realizing that this would be the best way to offer both of them peace of mind, Sam nodded and started rummaging through their bags. "Call for room service, would you? I'm starving and this is going to take a while."

It did take a while. More than a couple of hours had passed before Sam exhausted all the possibilities – or at least enough to satisfy Dean – and announced that his brother was still the royal pain in the ass that he'd always been.

Dean's emotions were clearly etched across his face, despite obvious efforts to suppress them, and Sam cast about quickly, trying to help him find an excuse to escape until he could regain control. "Hey, I think we should celebrate. Why don't you go down and see if the bar's open? You could check on the car too."

Dean nodded in gratitude, turning quickly toward the door.

"I'll hop on the laptop and see if I can find any answers," Sam called after him.

More than thirty minutes passed before Dean came back to the room, and Sam had to admit that he hadn't made much progress. He rolled his eyes as Dean produced a six-pack from a brown paper bag.

"Bar was closed, but I managed to talk the desk clerk out of this." He grinned. "Boy was she ever friendly." He seemed to be caught in the memory, but only a few seconds passed before he looked at Sam. "Find anything?"

Grimacing, Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I started with reapers and faith healers, but I couldn't find anything concrete. There's one reference to the body being more receptive to healing after a faith healer works their mojo, but the whole deal with the reaper makes that less likely." Sam sighed and pushed the laptop away.

Dean could obviously see his frustration, and cuffed him on the back of the head. "Relax, geek-boy. Let's have a beer, and I'll take over for a while. In the morning you can try Dad's contacts and see if any of them have any ideas." He dropped his hand from the back of Sam's head and let it rest briefly on his brother's shoulder. "We'll get it all figured out."

Sam nodded, toying with his beer as he let Dean's reassurance wash over him. He hadn't realized how dependent he was on his brother's quiet confidence until he'd almost lost it for good. The relief of having it back wasn't really as conscious thought – it was just instinct to look to Dean for answers and comfort; just as it was instinct for Dean to provide them as best he could.

Finishing his beer, Dean wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled the laptop over. For a moment, fear and uncertainty could be clearly read in his eyes but, by the time Sam looked up, they were replaced by determination and confidence as he shot a cocky grin at his little brother.

_Sam's Journal_

_Looking back at those first few hours after we'd discovered Dean's new ability, I can't help but be ashamed by my reaction. Oh, I was pretty confident through the tests, and not at all surprised to discover that my brother was still my brother, but I couldn't see him as anything else at the time._

_It took years for me to come to grips with my own short-sightedness. They say that a child may spend their entire life seeing their parent only as a parent – never as a real person with feelings and friends and a life beyond their child. That almost captures how I used to look at Dean. He was my brother, and his entire childhood – his identity – was looking after me. He continued this in his adulthood, despite my objections, because he knew that this was ultimately what was expected of him; by our father, and also by me. _

_As we struggled to understand what was happening to Dean, he cracked jokes, provided reassurances, and protected me from his own emotions. I let him. I shared my fears and speculation with him – Would this enhanced healing make his body burn out faster? What if it stopped working in the middle of a big fight? What if there were side effects?_

_Dean smiled and made up answers to all my questions. In my memories I can see the fear in his eyes, but back then I couldn't handle it, so I let it be invisible to me._

_I have apologized profusely for this blindness in the past, and I will do so again when Dean comes to see me today. He'll just laugh at me and brush me off; tell me it was a long time ago and he doesn't even remember. But there will be gratitude in his eyes. _

**TBC**


	3. Working Stuff Out

**Chapter Three: Working Stuff Out**

Sunlight was spilling around the closed curtains when Sam awoke. He was relieved to find that his headache was gone, and the bump on the back of his head was only a little tender under his probing fingers.

"'Bout time, sleeping beauty," Dean snorted. He was seated at the small table across the room, writing in their father's journal. Sam rolled out of bed and crossed to look over his shoulder.

"I couldn't find anything on the demon, so I'm making an entry," Dean explained. His drawing was crude but serviceable, and his written description had the same neatness and detailed precision as if their father had composed it himself.

"Nice," Sam commented, dropping into the other chair. "You been at this all night?"

There was no accusation in his tone, but Dean's head snapped up and he eyed Sam before answering. "I couldn't sleep."

Sam couldn't think of a response that wouldn't make his brother more defensive, so he nodded and reached for the laptop. "Did you find anything on the reaper or faith healing?"

Dean shook his head, shoulders slumping. "Nothing useful. Mostly just sites debunking faith healers."

Sam glanced at the time. "I'll get on the phone in a couple hours; call dad's contacts. Maybe we'll get lucky." He started typing. "If we don't I think we should go back there. Maybe some of the other people who were healed are having the same…symptoms."

Dean smirked. "Symptoms. Right."

A knock on the door interrupted them. They exchanged a glance – who would be knocking at 9am with the Do Not Disturb sign still out – and Dean moved to the .45 on the nightstand while Sam approached the door.

"Who is it?" he called.

"It's Kevin," was the reply.

"One second," Sam told him through the door. He turned back to his brother. "Go get in the shower."

Dean shot him a puzzled look.

"He'll expect you to be all banged up. I don't think we should advertise this thing till we know what's going on."

Nodding, Dean disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as he heard the water running, Sam opened the door.

"Hey, Kevin. Sorry about that – Dean wasn't decent." As he spoke, Sam realized that he was standing there in boxers and a T-shirt.

Kevin gave him an amused grin, recognizing his discomfort. "It's okay. I'm sorry to come so early, but I wanted to check on you guys."

"We're fine," Sam told him as he hurried into a pair of jeans. They were a little too short in the leg – Dean's. "Just a little sore, but we're used to that." He refused to make a bigger spectacle of himself by switching jeans, instead hitching Dean's pants up as they slipped down to his hips. "We'll probably head out later today."

Kevin nodded. "As long as you're sure you're up to it. There's no rush. I'll pick up the tab here if you need a few more days."

"No. We're fine. We were just going to check in with you and then hit the road."

"No need to check in. It was quiet at the sight yesterday; for the first time in as long as I've been here. We're all grateful." Kevin pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Sam.

Accepting the paper, Sam opened it to find a check for $1,000. "Thanks, Kevin." He extended his hand.

Kevin shook hands and turned to leave. He glanced back. "If you boys ever need anything you let me know."

Sam thanked him again and ushered him out. The shower stopped running, as if Dean could sense the departure, and it was only a couple minutes before he emerged.

"Dude, you're in my pants," he leered.

Sam shook his head, trying not to laugh, as he peeled the jeans off and threw them at his brother's head.

They grabbed breakfast at the restaurant next door. While Dean paid the check, Sam ducked out to try Dad's friend Joshua. When voicemail picked up, he left a cryptic message – they were looking for some information, if he could call back. Sam was a little confused by his own reticence, but suddenly his instincts were screaming not to share too much information with dad's contacts. He felt a stab of worry over how their father would react to the news if word got back to him. He knew that Dean was still holding on to a memory of the father that had loved them unconditionally, but all of Sam's memories featured a calculating, sometimes callous, man who weighed every potential advantage without consideration for anything – or anyone – but his cause. He had a disturbing feeling that their father, given the information, would catalog Dean as some kind of super-weapon instead of a son. What better soldier to have on the front line of a fight than one that could heal from any injury?

He jumped as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and spun around to find Dean smirking at him.

"Any luck?"

Sam shook his head. "I left a message." He met his brother's eyes and tried to find a tactful way to express his thoughts. "Listen Dean, I think we should try to keep this to ourselves for now."

Dean shot him a quizzical look. "What do you mean, Sammy? It's not like Dad's contacts are gonna put out an ad."

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "I know, but we don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. I mean, we don't know the extent of this. It could be temporary, or maybe it won't work for everything. Hell, maybe it was a one-time thing. I just don't want to see you get hurt 'cause somebody acts rashly."

Dean's eyes narrowed, and Sam knew that his last sentence had been too much.

"You mean you don't want Dad to 'get the wrong idea.'" He kept his voice level, but his eyes bored into Sam's, demanding an answer.

Sam looked away. "It's not like that, exactly. I just don't think we should say anything yet." He took a deep breath and decided to go all-in. "You know how Dad gets. I don't want to see you put in danger just because he thinks you'll heal. You can still be hurt. Hell, for all we know you can still die."

"Dad wouldn't do that," Dean insisted, but now he was the one to drop his eyes, and Sam knew that he'd won. Dean had always managed to maintain his blind faith in their father, but a part of that was avoiding situations that would call that faith into question.

"You're wrong, Sammy," Dean said flatly. "But we'll do this your way if it makes you happy."

Part of Sam, a malicious part that he didn't want to acknowledge, wanted to pass Dean the phone that was still in his hand and tell him to go ahead and call Dad. Let the chips fall where they would. Instead he holstered the phone and patted his brother's shoulder. "Thanks."

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, obviously still unhappy with Sam's opinion, and started back toward the hotel.

Sam let his brother's anger roll off him, satisfied that he'd won the debate so easily. He trailed along behind, searching for something to say that would break the tension. Dean's phone saved him the effort.

As Sam looked on, Dean – his back still stiff with suppressed anger – glanced at the phone and crammed it back onto his belt without breaking stride.

Sam hurried to catch up with him. "Who was it?"

"Dad," Dean answered. "Coordinates." He picked up his pace and Sam wasn't sure if it was because of the message or if he was trying to put distance between them.

He followed silently through the hotel lobby and hallways, but once they were behind the closed door of their room he stopped holding back.

"Dean, we're not going on another hunt right now. Not until we figure out what's going on with you."

Dean didn't bother to look up as he plugged the coordinates into the laptop. "Sam, don't."

"Come on, Dean, don't you think finding out what happened to you is more important right now than chasing after Dad's monster of the week?"

"No," Dean answered, his voice flat and emotionless, "it's not." He finally looked up at Sam. "First of all, one person already died because of me and this faith healer thing. You think I want to be responsible for somebody else getting hurt or killed because we ignore Dad's message?"

Sam started to respond, but Dean waved him off and continued. "Second, every message, every hunt could get us that much closer to the thing that killed Mom…and Jessica. Even the smallest clue, the littlest step is worth dropping everything else."

Sam rolled his eyes, now fighting his own anger. "Why the hell do you have to be so selfless? Why can't you ever do anything because it's what you need or want?"

Dean snapped, pushing away from the table to stand toe to toe with his brother. "Why do you have to be so fucking selfish?"

For a moment Sam thought he was going to get hit, but Dean turned away and paced around the room as he continued to rant. "Dammit, Sam, I'm telling you what I want to do – I want to follow Dad's orders and help people. If there's time for Nebraska later that's great, but meanwhile we've got work to do. So don't try to make this about me when you're really talking about what you want."

Sam was startled by his brother's anger, but he wasn't ready to drop the argument. "This is more important," he insisted.

"It wasn't that long ago you were telling me we stick together from now on so, unless that was a line of crap, here's your choices. Either we call Dad and tell him exactly what's going on and see if the job can wait or we're on the road to…" he squinted at the laptop screen, "Florida."

It took Sam a minute to formulate an answer – he was reeling from the surprise of Dean throwing his words back in his face. It was rare for Dean to get so angry, so quickly, and he wanted to choose his words carefully. Since he still had the feeling that involving Dad would be a mistake, there was really only one choice. "Let's go to Florida," he said resignedly.

They packed in uncomfortable silence; at least uncomfortable for Sam. He wasn't used to walking on eggshells around his brother, but Dean wasn't usually one to issue ultimatums, other than that one time by the side of the road on the way to Indiana. And Sam had to admit that he'd been pushing to be left behind that time.

"Where in Florida?" he finally asked to break the silence as they climbed into the car.

"Lakeland," Dean answered. "We'll figure out why when we stop for the night." He pulled out of the parking lot and they were on their way.

Sam's Journal

_I still wonder if we'd chosen differently, if we'd started looking for answers right away, if things would be different. _

_Dean was right – there were lives to be saved in Florida. And, as it turned out, Dean's life wasn't in any danger. We would learn that over time._

_The drive to Florida started in silence, but Dean was never one to hold onto anger for long, especially when it was directed at me. By the time we stopped for the night he was calm again. When we reached our destination the following night, everything was back to normal and, after we finished the job, it was my turn to be angry._

**TBC**

**A/N: Sorry this chapter's shorter than usual. It apparently didn't want to be written, and fought tooth and nail all the way. I promise a longer chapter with more action next time, and the next chapter is underway, so I hope for a quicker update this time!**


	4. The Haunted Shower

**Chapter 4:The Haunted Shower**

**A/N:This chapter is loosely based on an urban legend called Haunted Shower. The events begin in the same manner (however implausible), but then there is a small departure from the original events. I've never been to Lakeland, Florida, so please forgive any inaccuracies in the depiction.**

By the time they reached Lakeland, Florida, the boys had a good idea what their father wanted them to investigate. Lakeland was home to Florida Central College, where four young men had died over the past two weeks. Cause of death had been different in each case, but the circumstances surrounding the seeming accidents or suicides were suspicious.

Dean found a cheap motel not far from the campus and they settled in as night began to fall.

"Run down the list, Sam." Dean was sitting on his bed, idly flipping through their father's journal for anything that could help.

"Okay," Sam began, "first death was Damien Hodges, 18, scalded to death in the third floor bathroom in Hollis Hall. Nobody heard or saw anything. Second victim was Mike Malloy. He was 20. Three days after Damien died he smashed a mirror in the same bathroom and slit his wrists. He was dead by the time anyone found him. Third guy was Tommy McCue, also 20. He hung himself, also in the third floor bathroom. After he died the school got smart and closed off that bathroom, but then Dan Covais slipped in the shower room on the second floor and hit his head. He died too."

"Any connections between them?"

Sam double checked his notes. "They all lived on the third floor in Hollis Hall. The last three were friends, but looks like they didn't have any connection to Damien other than being neighbors."

"Hmm, some kind of angry spirit probably," Dean speculated. "Any past problems in that building?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing in the local paper for the past five years. We'll need to hit the library to go back further."

Dean nodded in acknowledgement. "Maybe tomorrow. We don't want to ignore that it could be a cycle." He closed the journal and set it aside. "Let's check out the building tonight, maybe see who's left on the third floor to talk to."

"Food first," Sam told him, closing the laptop and heading for the door.

Sam had pulled a map of the campus off the internet, so they had no problem finding the dorm. Dean stuffed the last of his take-out fries into his mouth as he angled into a parking space.

They made it to the third floor unchallenged, and Dean made quick work of the lock on the bathroom door. Dropping their bag of tricks to the floor, he waited for Sam to secure the door before pulling out his EMF reader and a shotgun. He tossed the gun to his brother and circled the room, scanning for any sign of a spirit.

"Nothing," he reported after a minute. "Maybe it moved downstairs permanently."

Sam shrugged, eyes distant. "I can feel something, but it's not very strong. It's not here right now."

"Maybe we should have called ahead," Dean joked. "We'll try back later. Meanwhile, let's see if we can find anyone that'll talk to us."

They hit pay dirt on the third try when a disheveled, slightly ripe-smelling resident named Chris answered their knock. He was obviously terrified of something and the brothers played off each other to talk their way into his room and persuade him to tell his story.

Once they were inside, Dean commandeered the desk chair, leaving Sam to lean against a corner of the desk. Most of the other surfaces in the room were covered with books, papers and dirty laundry. Sam took the lead on the questioning and Dean didn't object, recognizing that the soft-touch would probably get them further than his direct approach. Sam's sincerity paid off, and he was able to convince Chris that they could help him if he just told them the whole story.

"It was supposed to be just a stupid joke, but now everyone is dying," he began, voice cracking in fear.

"Just take it easy," Sam reassured him. "Start at the beginning."

"It's that kid Damien. He was really stuck up or something, wouldn't have anything to do with the rest of us on the floor. He just kept to himself. A bunch of us decided to prank him in the showers and he died and now he's killing us off one by one!"

Chris' voice rose hysterically, and Sam stepped in to calm him again. "Chris, slow down and tell us about the prank. I know it's hard, but we need to know everything if we're going to help."

Dean shifted restlessly in his seat and Sam shot him a look. His big brother rolled his eyes in response, reminding Sam again how much he hated the touchy-feely stuff. Sam couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face and he was glad that Chris was too distracted to pick up on their by-play.

Taking a deep breath, Chris elaborated on his story. "So, the bathrooms here are kind of old. You can't flush the toilet while people are showering or they get burned. It was Mike's idea," he told them defensively. "There were, like, seven of us. We waited for him to go in the shower, then one of the guys stood outside with a camera and the rest of us flushed the toilets. Mike said he'd come running out and we'd get pictures to put up around the floor." Chris' voice was getting whinier as he went on. "We took turns flushing, and he was screaming at first, but he wouldn't come out. We kept on for a few minutes until he stopped screaming. When we checked he was dead. Mike said he was just too dumb to open the door."

Dean's face was a mask of anger and disgust, and Sam kicked his ankle, shooting him another cautionary look. Fortunately it wasn't that common, but they did occasionally run into a case where the spirit or demon was more likeable than its intended victim. Sam could always see the black and white of the situation – living human being rates higher than dead, murderous spirit – while Dean saw shades of grey and tended to want to champion the wronged party. Watching his brother scowl, Sam was reminded of how different they were, in spite of so many similarities. He wondered fleetingly what had happened in Dean's life that drew him so strongly to the outcasts and underdogs, but pushed the thought aside as Chris spoke again.

"So, are you going to help me? I can't sleep, haven't been near the bathroom since Dan died two days ago."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "That explains the smell," he snarked, standing up and moving to the door. "From what you've said, it's everybody's fault except yours – Mike's for the idea, Damien's for being snobby and stupid. The way you tell it you've got no blame, nothing to worry about." Shaking his head, he left the room.

Sam watched him go before turning back to Chris. "Do you know where Damien was from?"

Chris nodded, his expression still confused from Dean's words and abrupt departure. "Yeah. His folks live right here in town. Mike said they made him live on campus 'cause they couldn't stand him either."

Sam sighed inwardly, but otherwise didn't respond to the comment. "So he's buried locally?"

"Yeah. Roselawn Cemetery," Chris answered. "Are you guys gonna help me or what?"

"We'll see what we can do," Sam assured him, making a bee-line for the door.

Dean was pacing in the hallway, waiting for him. "You done with the hand-holding crap?"

Sam sighed. If he said yes, Dean would have some comment about coddling the idiot; if he tried to explain that it wasn't hand-holding there'd be a remark about that. Some situations were just lose-lose. Instead of arguing he chose to ignore Dean's question.

"Damien's buried at the Roselawn Cemetery here in town. I think it's a safe bet that the problems stem from him. It sounds like a pretty gruesome death."

Dean nodded, still angry. "And that little shit doesn't have any remorse; doesn't accept any of the blame." He stopped pacing and eyed Sam for a minute before nodding curtly at his brother's expression. "Fine. Let's do some grave digging."

Roselawn Cemetery wasn't difficult to find, but locating the right grave took a bit longer. The brothers split up to search, but it was still almost two hours before Sam found Damien's headstone. Dean was on the opposite side of the cemetery, and he had to resort to his cell phone to get his brother's attention. Fortunately the grave was a fair distance from the road, so they were not likely to draw unwanted attention.

They dug together at first then, as the hole got deeper, took turns. Dean was in the grave when the top of the coffin finally appeared, and he made quick work of clearing it off.

"Makes you miss the days of wooden boxes," he commented as he widened the hole so that the heavy lid could be opened.

Sam smirked from his seat on the side of the hole. "You can use the extra exercise," he laughed.

The laugh turned into a yelp as Dean grabbed his legs and yanked him into the grave, administering a dirty wet-willy to his closer ear.

"Aww, that's gross," Sam complained, shoving his brother aside and scrambling back out of the hole.

He wasn't prepared for the spirit that met him, a young man with glowing eyes and an angry expression. "Uh, Dean," he called out, keeping his eyes on the spirit, "Damien's here." He heard the creak of the coffin lid before Dean popped out of the hole behind him.

"Keep him busy for a sec while I take care of the bones," Dean instructed. He crouched by their weapons bag, leaving Sam to wonder why he always had to be the distraction.

There wasn't much time to dwell on it, as Damien started toward him. He could see Dean from the corner of his eye sprinkling salt into the grave, but splitting his attention between the spirit and his brother proved costly. He didn't see the headstone until it was too late, and before he could adjust he was on the ground with Damien standing over him.

In a split second Sam wondered – almost incoherently – what Damien would do to him. He wasn't sure of the specifics, but he was pretty confident that it would hurt. He kicked himself for being unprepared, for not having the shotgun ready. Something landed on the ground beside him, and his panicked brain recognized the lighter fluid and his brother's lighter. Suddenly Dean was there, confronting the spirit. Sam's momentary relief turned back to panic as he realized that Dean didn't have the shotgun either.

"Get the hell away from my brother," Dean spat, then to Sam, "Burn his ass, Sammy." Then Damien was on him.

Sam rolled away, diving toward the grave as Dean shouted in pain. Squirting the lighter fluid into the coffin, he looked over to see his brother on the ground, writhing in agony. Tendrils of smoke were rising from his jacket, and the smell of burning flesh assaulted Sam's nostrils as he dropped the lighter into the grave. Damien shrieked in anger and – Sam hoped – pain, and was gone.

He rushed to his brother's side. Dean wasn't moving but, based on the grimace of pain on his face, Sam was pretty sure he was conscious. The beam of his flashlight revealed first and second degree burns over all of Dean's exposed skin. Smoke was still trickling lazily from his jacket, and Sam used his hands to smother the remaining embers.

Realizing that Sam was there, Dean struggled to smooth out his expression until the only indication of his pain was in his eyes. "Sorry, Sammy. I guess I improvised again," Dean joked. "Got to break that habit."

"Are you okay? Can you get up?" Sam asked, concern warring with anger.

"Yeah, give me a sec." He lay there for a minute before struggling resolutely to his feet. He swayed, and Sam moved to support him, cringing at Dean's sharp intake of breath as the action chafed against his burns.

"He tried to fry me, like what happened to him," Dean said conversationally as he regained his balance. "Do I still have my eyebrows?"

Sam gave him a disgusted look, but checked anyway. "Yeah."

"Thank God."

"Come on, idiot. We need to get you to the hospital."

"Nah." Dean brushed him off, already much steadier on his feet. "Let's just go back to the motel."

"Dean," Sam started to argue, shining the light in his brother's face. He broke off with a gasp as he realized that the blistered skin he'd seen there was already beginning to heal. It looked no more serious than a bad sunburn.

"Dude, it barely hurts anymore," Dean told him, grabbing their bag and walking away, toward the car.

Sam stared after him. Now that he knew his brother was going to be okay his concern disappeared, dissolved by anger. Stalking after him, he grabbed Dean's arm, whirling him around. "Jesus Christ, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

Dean's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger. "I was thinking 'that thing's gonna hurt my brother,'" he snarled. "You're welcome!"

"I'm not thanking you, you idiot," Sam shouted. "You should've done your job and burned the bones. I don't want to watch you get hurt because of me."

The anger went out of Dean's voice. "I couldn't just watch it hurt you. What if these burns had killed you?"

Sam wanted to hit him. "What if they'd killed you?"

Dean shrugged. "There was a good chance I'd heal." He looked at Sam. "I knew you wouldn't. At least not as quickly."

Sighing, Sam shook his head. "And what if you didn't? Dean, we don't know anything about this healing stuff or how it works."

Dean shrugged again, but Sam could read the answer on his brother's face. _At least you would have been safe._

Without another word, Sam walked past his brother to the car. It wasn't until they were both seated inside that he spoke again.

"How do you think I'd feel if you died because of me?" He asked.

Dean stared straight ahead, not answering. Sam could see his jaw working, clenching and unclenching.

"Here's one more thing to consider," Sam continued softly. "Every time that you do something stupid and get yourself hurt, I'm the one that'll have to sit there and wait and see if you're going to heal one more time. How would you feel if our positions were reversed?"

Still not looking at him, Dean reached down silently and started the car.

Sam's Journal

_When I suggested rose reversal that time, I didn't bother to put myself in Dean's shoes. What with hindsight being 20-20, I can see his perspective now. If I had been the one who could potentially heal from anything, I would have done everything in my power to protect my brother, regardless of the pain it caused me. And actually that had always been Dean's way, even prior to the encounter with the faith healer. For me though, it seemed different. The added tension of wondering if Dean would continue to be able to heal quickly made it that way. What if it didn't work one time, and I delayed taking him to the hospital – he could die. What if I thought it wasn't working, went to the hospital, and then had to explain the miracle to his doctors when he healed in front of them. _

_The change in Dean's healing ability made him more reckless, as if he was challenging his new talent – what he jokingly called his superpower – not to work._

_It also spurred a change in me, as I became increasingly more determined not to create situations where Dean would risk injury for my sake. For the first time in over ten years I threw myself - body, mind and soul - into hunting. _

**TBC**


	5. Answers of a Sort

**Chapter Five: Answers of a Sort**

Sam's Journal

_Dean flatly refused to go back to Hollis Hall, so it fell to me to give Chris the good news. He wasn't any more likeable on the second visit that following morning. _

_By the time I finished reassuring that unpleasant young man and returned to the motel Dean had everything packed and was waiting with a fresh set of coordinates._

_We never really talked about it back then, but it was uncanny how Dad always seemed to know when we were free to start the next job. It became apparent later on that he wasn't personally watching us, but the mystery of how he knew when to contact us was just one of the many mysteries that was our father._

_I was still anxious to get back to Reverend La Grange in Nebraska but, with our recent argument still ringing in my ears, I didn't voice any complaint. Instead I climbed into the car and we were on our way to Oklahoma to deal with a poltergeist. _

_There were more coordinates when that job was done, and we paid visits to Ohio, Minnesota and Texas before we finally found time to go back to Nebraska. No serious injuries resulted, but even with just minor cuts and scrapes it was easy to see that Dean's 'gift' wasn't going away. If anything, his healing ability seemed to be accelerating. It was as if the power was synching with his body, eliminating injuries almost as quickly as they occurred. At least in my presence, Dean was excited by this. At the time, part of me wondered if it was an act but, knowing Dean, he was undoubtedly thrilled by the extra edge that would allow him to better protect his little brother. He wasn't interested at all in looking for answers; hindsight tells me it was probably fear that we wouldn't like the truth if we found it. I didn't recognize that fear, and I pushed for answers, needing some kind of explanation for myself. It was my determination – overpowering Dean's reluctance – that finally brought us back._

_None of the others who had been healed were displaying any of Dean's symptoms, and we even visited David Wright, the other near-victim of the reaper. It wasn't until we went to see Reverend La Grange that we found any semblance of answers._

Nebraska

Sam was surprised, as they pulled into the muddy driveway, to see that Reverend La Grange's tent was still in place and the tire tracks around it appeared to be fresh. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't that the Reverend would be continuing his ministry. He glanced over at Dean, but his brother's expression was unreadable as he maneuvered the car into a space near the house.

Dean turned off the car, but made no move to get out. "I don't know why we're here," he said after a few seconds, staring straight ahead.

Sam let his hand drop from the door handle, turning to face his brother. He sighed, "Dean, we talked about this. We need answers. We need to know what happened to you."

"Whatever it is you're looking for, I don't see why you think we'll find it here. We already know La Grange was a fraud."

"You know he's the best shot we have left," Sam argued. "Unless we miraculously hear from Joshua. But after this long, I think we've got to give up on him." Sam had to admit he was puzzled when their father's friend hadn't responded to his message. He had followed up after a few weeks, but still without results. He wondered if something had happened to the man, but part of him believed that their father had something to do with it. He shook his head, marveling at his own paranoia. Meeting Dean's eyes, he found his brother looking at him quizzically. There was a vulnerable uncertainty on his brother's face that made Sam freeze in surprise.

Reacting to Sam's expression, Dean closed himself off. It was as if someone had thrown a switch. "If we're gonna do this, let's get it over with," he sighed, climbing out of the car.

Sam followed his brother up to the front door and, as Dean hesitated, leaned around him to press the bell.

After a few moments, the door was answered by a friendly woman in her forties. "Can I help you?"

Sam glanced again at his brother before stepping forward. "We'd like to speak with Reverend La Grange," he requested.

"I'm sorry," she said with genuine regret. "He's not seeing visitors today. If you'd like to attend the service on Sunday he usually speaks with people afterward." She started to close the door but hesitated as Sam spoke again.

"Miss, if you could just tell him we're here. He healed my brother, Dean, a few months ago. We're just passing through, and Dean would really like to see him – to say thank you again," Sam told her, trying to make it clear that they weren't soliciting anything. "I'd like to thank him too."

The woman's eyes were sympathetic. "Wait right here. I'll go ask the Reverend." She shut the door, leaving them on the porch.

"What the hell was that?" Dean hissed. "Could you be any more of a girl?"

Sam smirked at his brother. "Actually, I'm pretty sure you were the girl in that story."

"Whatever." Dean shook his head in disgust. "I'll say thanks, but no hugging or touchy-feely crap."

"Hey, I had to make it clear that we weren't looking for another miracle, or she would've kicked us off the porch." Sam glared at his brother until he heard the door opening, then he spun around, plastering a hopeful smile on his face.

Unlatching the screen door, she pushed it toward them. "He'll see you."

Following her through the house with Dean at his heels, Sam noticed that it seemed much brighter and cleaner. This woman was obviously a better housekeeper than Sue Ann. He smirked. There was apparently more free time for dusting and vacuuming when you weren't trying to control the forces of darkness.

"Reverend Roy is in the sitting room." She stopped at the door and motioned them into the room. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back shortly with some refreshments."

"Don't go to any trouble on our account," Sam began, but she waved him off and headed back down the hall.

Sam turned back to the room, startled as Dean brushed past him and stepped inside. His brother was moving tentatively, as if part of him was drawn to the reverend while another part wanted nothing more than to run from the house and the answers that he might not want to hear. He froze in his tracks when the reverend spoke.

"Dean," he said, smiling in their direction. "I'd hoped to meet you again. Come in and sit down, boys."

"You remember me?" Dean blurted, following Sam to a comfortable, overstuffed sofa.

"Of course. I told you – you were special."

Dean glanced at Sam, looking away quickly.

Sam glared at his brother, addressing his question to the reverend. "Special how?"

Roy turned his attention to the couch, eyes unreadable behind dark sunglasses. "It's like I told your brother, young man. God guided me to him; let me see into his heart. I could tell that he had an important job to do for the Lord." The reverend paused as his housekeeper delivered a tray of iced tea and cookies, placing a glass in his hand. "Thanks, Peggy." Taking a sip, he continued, "Your brother stood out, he has the brightest soul I've ever seen. Dean, I would have picked you even if you hadn't spoken out."

Dean picked up a glass of tea but didn't drink, turning it around in his hands, staring at it. He muttered something that Sam couldn't quite hear, and the reverend laughed.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, son. You are God's soldier, whether you acknowledge it or not." Roy settled back in his chair.

Dean pressed his lips together, shaking his head in denial.

Was there anything else unusual about Dean's healing?" Sam asked.

Roy nodded. "As a matter of fact, there was," he began. "Son, would you mind passing me one of Peggy's cookies?"

Sam bit back his impatience and placed a cookie in the reverend's extended hand, trying not to sigh as the man took a large bite, chewing slowly.

He finally continued, "I told Sue Ann afterward that Dean was different. I always experienced the healing process as removing illness from the person. In Dean's case it was more of a two-way street. I could feel something; I channeled something from God that went in as the illness came out." He shook his head, and Sam saw sorrow creep across his face. "Sue Ann told me it was my imagination, but I know what I felt."

Sam spoke softly. "We were sorry to hear about your wife."

Roy shook his head regretfully. "It was my fault," he told them. "God is testing my faith. He saw my sinful pride and stripped me of everything – my wife and my ability."

Sam didn't know how to respond, but was saved from answering when the reverend spoke again.

"I'm glad you came," he told them with a smile. "It reminds me of the power of faith."

Dean had been so quiet that it startled Sam when he spoke up. "Thanks for your time, Reverend. We really should be getting back on the road." He stood abruptly, and Sam and the reverend followed.

"Thank you for coming," Roy told them, extending a hand in their direction. Sam shook it and stepped back. The hand moved slightly, in Dean's direction. Sam watched his brother hesitate – almost imperceptibly – before accepting the handshake, as if afraid of the brief contact. Without another word he released the reverend's hand and hurried out of the room.

Sam paused at the door. "Thank you again. Dean's…well, he's all I've got right now, and if you hadn't picked him…" he trailed off.

"God picked him," the reverend told him. "Goodbye, Sam."

With the reverend's words echoing in his ears, Sam let himself out onto the porch and almost ran into his brother. Dean had stopped at the top of the steps to stare out across the yard. Sam reached out to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, surprised when Dean didn't shake him off.

"You okay?" he asked, tightening his grip.

Now Dean pulled away, as if just noticing his presence. "Yeah, fine, Sammy," he said, moving down the steps toward the Impala. "You happy with your answers?"

Sam stared at his brother's retreating back for a minute before hurrying to catch up. "They're your answers too," he insisted. "And why didn't you tell me what the reverend said before?"

Dean opened the driver's side door before looking up, glaring across the car at Sam. "Because it's crap! I don't believe any of it, and even if it was true it doesn't answer anything. I still don't know why me or for how long. All we got here was a line of bullshit!" Shaking his head in disgust, he lowered himself into the car and slammed the door.

Sam had involuntarily stepped back, away from the raw emotion in his brother's eyes and voice. He had to force himself forward to climb into the car. "At least we have something to go on," he said tentatively, trying not to flinch under Dean's intense stare. "I mean, it seems like whatever happened to you, it came through the reverend. God or no God," he hastily added as Dean started to protest.

With a short shake of his head, Dean reached down and started the car. "So, are we done here?" he asked, and Sam could see him forcing the tension out of his shoulders. Sam relaxed; Dean didn't hang on to negative emotions if he could help it.

"Yeah," he answered. "Let's go." He settled back in his seat, mind racing with the information that had been provided. Dean might not want to consider the possibilities, might not see himself as worthy of the role in which he had been cast, but Sam didn't share his cynicism. He was prepared to accept his brother as a hero, a warrior, with a special gift. It didn't matter that the situation remained open-ended. And, it caused him to look at his own circumstances – his visions – in a different light.

**TBC**


	6. Family Reunion

Title: Time Marches On

Author: NobdyPtclr

Disclaimer: Tried to buy them over the summer, but it didn't work out

Author's Note: No excuse for the long delay. If you are still with me, thank you for your patience. If you've just found the story, you are the lucky one. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. It was the pressure of knowing that people were actually reading that brought me back to this story.

Chapter Six: Family Reunion

Sam's Journal

We settled back into our routine: follow the coordinates or newspaper reports, research the occurrences, stop the bad guys. If Dean thought at all about the reverend's words, he didn't speak of it. Not that I expected him to. I, of course, found myself considering them a lot and wondering about my own part in all of this. Were my visions and Dean's healing ability from the same source? I tried to raise the question to Dean, but he shrugged it off, turning up the radio to indicate the conversation was over.

For me the idea of divine intervention made my visions less of a burden, and using our special tools to help us hunt evil and save people made me see Dean's perspective for the first time. Maybe this was our destiny and, if so, maybe it wasn't such a bad deal.

If Dean noticed my new enthusiasm it was one more thing he didn't comment on. I did notice that he seemed more relaxed, maybe even happy, as if he realized that I was finally committed and wouldn't be running out on him again. In the past I had periodically resented or mocked Dean's assumption of command upon Dad's departure and my return. Now we settled into an easy partnership, probably more as a result of my change in attitude than any change on Dean's part.

My visions continued to come – sometimes painfully – with increasing frequency, and Dean's healing abilities also continued to improve. We accepted the changes and continued to hunt with an aura of companionable contentment for almost a year, until our father came careening back into our lives. I was taken by surprise by the wave of loneliness – and maybe even jealousy – that crashed over me as Dean distanced himself, stepping with practiced ease back into his role as the "good little soldier." Following his lead, I was suddenly – almost against my will – the resentful teenager again, questioning and objecting to every plan and every order.

It didn't help that Dad chose to resurface after an unusually painful vision that had led to an encounter with an angry spirit. The aftermath of the vision left me a little slow, just slightly off my game, but it was enough for the spirit to press its advantage. The last thing I remembered was Dean shouting, then I was thrown into a wall and everything went black.

Sam had awakened briefly on the way back to the motel, so he was quick to recognize his surroundings as awareness crept through his body. Eyes still closed, he took a quick inventory. His right shoulder was sore, and the dull ache in the back of his head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but compared to many past injuries this wasn't so bad. He'd definitely had worse.

He opened his eyes to look for Dean. There was no worry – if Dean had gotten them back here he must be okay. It only took a moment for Sam to find his brother. Dean had pulled an arm chair over to the bed and it was there that he slept – clothes rumpled, hair tousled – within arm's reach of Sam.

Sam studied his brother, marveling – not for the first time – at how vulnerable, how young Dean looked while he slept. Pushing himself upright, Sam tried to bite back a groan, but wasn't surprised when Dean's eyes popped open and he leaned forward to offer support. Sam's gaze fell to his brother's t-shirt, to a tear just above his waist that was surrounded by dried blood. He could tell by Dean's quick, fluid movements that the injury had already healed.

"Okay?" Dean asked, stacking pillows behind him.

Sam wasn't sure if he meant the pillows or his general condition, but he nodded in response.

"What happened?" he asked, clearing his throat when his voice emerged as a hoarse croak.

"Bastard knocked you into the wall. I got off a shot and scared him off, but not before he tossed me across the room." Dean crossed to the table and grabbed a bottle of water. He turned back quickly, but not before Sam saw the matching tear and blood stain on the back of his shirt.

"What happened to you?" he asked pointedly as he accepted the bottle and took a long swig.

"Remember that re-bar along the far wall?"

Sam nodded, picturing the abandoned basement in his head. He cringed at the image of his brother impaled on one of the exposed metal beams, Sam unconscious at his feet. The image progressed like a bad horror movie and Sam brought a hand to his face as if to block out the vision of his brother forcing himself agonizingly off of the impediment to come to his aid.

"Jesus, Dean," he gasped, shaking his head.

"It's okay, Sammy. It only hurt for a minute," Dean joked, but Sam thought he could see a bleakness in his brother's eyes as if he was unsettled by his own memory of the events.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, lowering his eyes. He knew from the past that accelerated healing didn't mean painless injuries.

"Not your fault." Dean was quick to reassure.

Sam shook his head. "If I'd been a little quicker…"

"Hey, he was too fast for me too," Dean pointed out. "We just need a better plan next time."

Sam opened his mouth, a wise-assed response on the tip of his tongue, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Their eyes met and Dean passed Sam a handgun.

"No concussion, right? No double vision? You're not gonna hit me by accident?" He smirked, picking up his own gun.

Sam laughed. "I'll try not to," he said, pretending to cower in fear under his brother's mock glare.

Dean crossed to the door and they were all business, both guns at the ready.

"Who is it?"

"Dean, open the door."

There was no mistaking the voice, and Dean hurriedly unlocked the door, pulling it open. That accomplished, he seemed lost, standing there holding the door, staring at their father.

John Winchester pushed past his oldest son into the room. "Lock the door." He tossed the words over his shoulder as he crossed to Sam. "Are you okay, Sammy?"

Sam pushed himself further up on the bed, sitting up straighter. "Fine. Just a little banged up." He glanced at his brother and felt a stab of anger. Dean was still standing by the door as he watched them, as if waiting for the next order.

"So, what brings you here?" Sam asked, opting for a casual tone even as he clenched his teeth together to hold back his resentment.

"I have a new lead," their father stated simply. "I wanted to check in on you before I follow it through." John ran a hand through his hair. "Good thing I did, what with the mess you made last night." He looked pointedly at Dean before turning back to Sam. "I got there just in time to kill that thing before it got away."

Sam looked up in alarm, trying unsuccessfully to catch his brother's eye. How much had their father seen? He felt a flood of anger. "You were there and you didn't bother to see if we were okay? To help us?" He pictured John standing in the shadows, coldly analytical as he watched his son struggle to free himself from the metal rod on which he was impaled.

"By the time I finished the job your brother already had you in the car. I just managed to track you down this morning."

Sam opened his mouth to continue, but Dean cut him off, tired of the debate.

"What's this new lead?"

"I think I know where the demon is, and I've found a way to kill it."

Both boys started firing questions at him until John threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Before I go any further, Dean is going to go get us some lunch. We're going to eat, and then I'll tell you everything, without interruptions. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answered for both of them, reaching for the door.

"And Dean, real food. No burgers."

"Yes, sir." He slipped out the door.

John waited till the Impala could be heard leaving the parking lot before he spoke. "Sam, get your stuff."

Sam stared at him in confusion.

"We're leaving. Now."

"But…"

"I'm offering you a shot at Jessica's killer – your mother's killer – but I can't take you both."

"Why not?"

"Sam, don't argue. This could be our only shot." John grabbed his son's bag, tossing it on the bed. "Don't tell me after all this time you don't want it."

It occurred to Sam that maybe the decision should have been more difficult than it was. He realized that his father was playing a card that might have worked two years ago, but John didn't realize how much his sons had changed. "Not without Dean."

John sighed in exasperation, running a hand through his hair. "Sam, this monster killed your girlfriend. The longer we sit here and argue the more chance it has to get away. Now get your stuff and let's go."

Sam clenched his jaw, stubbornly shaking his head. Even if his brother was acting like a brainwashed idiot, he knew what it would do to Dean to come back to an empty motel room. "I'm waiting for Dean. You can wait with me or not, but I won't leave without him."

TBC


	7. Compromise

**Title: Time Marches On**

**Author:NobdyPtclr**

**Disclaimer:They don't belong to me, just borrowing them.**

**A/N: This is a bit shorter than usual, but I figured it's better to post now than to let it fall by the wayside again. Thanks again to everyone for the reviews and for sticking with the story in spite of a long delay.**

**Chapter Seven: Compromise**

John threw up his hands in disgust and paced back and forth across the small room. Sam tried not to flinch under the weight of his glare as he turned his attention back to the bed. The glare only lasted a few seconds before it was replaced by an expression so foreign to John Winchester's face that it took Sam a moment to recognize it. His father looked defeated.

"Sammy," John began, "I don't know how it happened, but that's not your brother."

Sam stared at his father for a moment before it dawned on him what had happened. "You saw him in the basement."

It was John's turn to be confused. "You knew? You knew and you didn't call me? You've been riding around with that thing for God knows how long, and you think that's okay?"

Sam snapped. "First of all, that's still Dean. It happened when he was dying and we went to the faith healer. You remember when I left you that message, right? Or did you just delete it? Dean wanted to call you about this, but I wouldn't let him." Sam grinned bitterly, taking a breath before continuing. "I thought you might react badly. Of course, I probably overreacted. I mean, you're, like, Dad of the Year, right? What father wouldn't totally ignore his sons while he takes off on some personal vendetta? What father wouldn't ignore a phone call that his son is dying? What father wouldn't leave one son unconscious and the other impaled on a metal rod so he could go kill a demon?"

John stared at him open-mouthed and Sam thought he saw regret in his father's eyes, but when he didn't speak Sam continued. "If you're so convinced that Dean is a demon, why'd you let him take me last night?"

"I was too far away to stop him. I saw him put you in the car, but by the time I got back to my truck you were gone."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "What were you going to do to him?"

John sighed, shaking his head, and Sam thought fleetingly that his father had aged beyond his years in the course of their conversation. "I wanted to get you someplace safe," John told him, "before I took care of that thing. I couldn't take the chance that you wouldn't believe me." He looked pleadingly at his son. "You know your brother wouldn't want this."

Sam recognized his father's regret and resignation, and his own anger drained away. "I told you, that _is_ Dean. We ran through all the tests. Dean insisted; he needed to be sure he wouldn't hurt me."

"Sam, it's not natural. That can't be your brother. You must have missed something."

"Dammit, Dad, I'm sure! We didn't miss anything, and I know Dean – I know him better than you do. Yes, he can heal quickly from any type of wound, but he's still my brother and he's still your son!"

John seemed to be weighing his options. "If we take him with us, we run all your tests again," he demanded with a strange gleam in his eye.

Sam nodded quickly, relieved. "Sure."

John returned the nod, sitting down in the chair by the bed. "So… any kind of wound?"

Sam relaxed, feeling that the near-crisis had been averted. He eagerly provided John with the details of their visits to the faith healer and the injuries his brother had recovered from. He spoke quickly, tripping over his words in his efforts to make his father fully understand what had happened. They were still talking when Dean returned with the food.

Dean eyed the animated discussion warily, stopping just inside the door.

Sam met his eyes. "He saw last night," he said simply, rushing to reassure. "But it's okay. He just wants to see the tests; to be sure you're you."

Dean shrugged, aiming for indifference and almost making it. "Sure, right after lunch."

"No. Now." John couldn't quite meet his eldest son's eyes, but there was no mistaking the command in his voice.

Dean shrugged again as if the subject was unimportant to him, but he set the bags aside and squared his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

John conducted a battery of tests – some of which Sam had never seen before – but could not find any evidence that Dean had been possessed or replaced. His words of acceptance were hearty and reassuring, but Sam felt a trickle of worry as he noticed that his father still seemed to avoid looking at Dean and, although he was smiling, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

_Sam's Journal_

_Looking back, I've marked that day in my memory as the beginning of the end in more ways than one. Dad's information would ultimately lead us to the demon that we'd been seeking for over twenty years. I was overwhelmed by excitement and relief at the prospect, but I also felt uneasy – not just at the idea of a final battle, but with the way that Dad seemed to be distancing himself from Dean._

_Dean must have seen it too, and he was uncharacteristically tentative in his interactions with him. I wasn't used to being the middle-man between them, and I missed the old Dean, recognizing for the first time how hard he worked to hold our family together. It was only a matter of a few days before our relationships were strained practically to the breaking point, and we were all tiptoeing around each other. I think it was hardest on Dean. I still shake my head at the irony that the one of us who valued the family the most was – through circumstances beyond his control – the one who was slowly pulling us apart._

**TBC**


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